Bits and Pieces (Ficlet Collection)
by Feyna
Summary: A collection of standalone ficlets and snippets capturing moments within the (gen) FACE family. (Summary at the top of each chapter; ToC at the end of Ch1) Ch1: "It's the night before Christmas and Canada is sick and bedridden, resigned to spend the holiday alone—or so he believes." Ch7: "Being immortal in a world of mortal men can be painful. France tries to help Canada cope."
1. Christmas Is with Family (Canada&FACE)

I haven't posted anything in a while due to time constraint and other insecurities, so I decided it was high time to indulge in a fluffy, cheesy snippet for Christmas. Even if it's short, I figured it would still be better than nothing.

I hope you'll enjoy it, and merry Christmas! <3

**Summary:** _It's the night before Christmas and Canada is sick and bedridden, facing the prospect of spending the holiday alone and away from his family — or so he believes._

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**Christmas Is with Family**

The bells chimed at midnight, rousing Matthew from his restless slumber with a series of deep chough that rattled his chest. When he was finally able to regain control of his breathing, his chest burned and his throat felt like it had been scratched by a thousand needles. The bells had long since fallen silent.

Matthew's lips curled into a wry grimace.

He could picture the people outside – chatting and hugging each other, exchanging gifts and greetings. He could have been in a similar situation too, smiling and joyful, with his face caught in the bright, colourful lights of Alfred's Christmas tree.

Unfortunately, that year hadn't been clement on Matthew. Instead of Christmas carols, only his own rasped breaths echoed in his ears. No welcome aroma of freshly-baked treats filling his nostrils, just the pungent smell of alcohol-based chough syrup. His stomach hollow and aching instead of almost unpleasantly full.

_Oh oh oh, Merry Christmas!_

What an exquisite gift his body had decided to bestow upon him…

A wet, cold nose nuzzling the back of his neck brought Matthew back to reality.

"Too warm," Kumajiro complained in a whimper, "Fever high."

This time, the ghost of a smile that danced at the corners of Matthew's lips was genuine. He cleared his dry throat with a small, painful cough in an attempt to give confidence to his raspy voice.

"There's nothing to worry about, Kuma. I'm a personification. I'll be all right."

Which took nothing out of the fact being sick _sucked_, however. And on _Christmas_, on top of that. Kumajiro's concern, for how welcome, wasn't enough to erase that.

The phone vibrated from side-table.

Matthew groaned and burrowed himself deeper under the blankets, trying to soothe the shivers wreaking his fevered body. Maybe, he could have summoned enough energy to extricate one heavy arm from the tangle and retrieve the phone.

If he had felt like it. Which… he didn't.

He had already contacted Alfred with an excuse for why he wouldn't be able to attend their usual Christmas gathering – there was nothing else he needed his phone for. Nothing except for reading messages of well-wish, each one a further twist of the knife embedded in his chest – another remembrance of what he was missing.

Matthew turned his head against the pillow and tried to ignore the tears stinging his eyes.

He knew he was being overdramatic (_'It's just for one year, you'll have plenty of other occasions,'_ a stern voice in a corner of his brain berated him) – yet, he had been looking forward to that day for so long… to seeing the smiling faces of his brothers, sitting together in front of the fireplace with the warmth of the flames caressing their skins…

But that year, Matthew was going to have nothing like that. While his brothers where somewhere sharing food and drinks, laughing… and simply being _together_, Matthew's too cold, still room span around him. As he willed himself to fall asleep, the silence sank its claw into his chest, whispered into his ear. With cruel sweetness, it reminded him that he was alone.

Matthew wanted to shake away the feeling. Not to think – to sink into the oblivion of sleep and forget.

Yet, his feverish brain couldn't. While his body was stuck in bed, his mind wandered back into memories. Christmas carols coming from somewhere around him. Wooden stairs creaking under the weight of several feet, doors opening and closing in a crescendo as the steps thumped closer. Arthur's smooth voice and the concerned note in Francis's one. Fingers cupping his face and threading across his hair.

Dreams. Ghosts conjured by the feverish delirium. Not real – but the flicker of comfort that warmed Matthew's chest was, in spite of the dull pain in his limbs. Since he couldn't have the real thing, he forced himself to bask into that small comfort and curled his lips into a small smile.

Except they couldn't be only memories, for the weight of another blanket securely tucked around his trembling form was real. The cold fingertips that rested on his forehead were too solid to be just a dream, too.

As awareness slowly trickled back into Matthew's mind, the sensations became stronger. The muscles of his forehead spontaneously creased in a frown, a confused whimper was torn from his throat.

"Ah! Look who's back to the land of the living!"

Alfred's chipper voice was the last push Matthew needed to be wrenched away from sleep. When he opened his eyes and blinked, his brother's face solidified in front of him.

"Wha…"

Perhaps, he had succumbed to the fever for good and was still dreaming.

But instead of vanishing, Alfred's smooth fingers travelled from Matthew's forehead to his hair in a soothing motion.

"And your temperature's down! You might even be able to get out of bed by dinner!"

Matthew kept staring at his brother, his muddled brain unable to make sense of what was happening.

"Why are you here?" he managed to rasp out at last, swallowing to restrain a coughing fit.

Alfred noticed anyway. Without a word, he slipped an arm behind Matthew's back and helped him to a semi-reclined position to ease his breathing. He even fluffed the pillow behind his back.

"Cause you're sick, duh._ 'I can't come because of some last-minute paperwork, I'm really sorry. Have fun for me too,'_" He parroted in a high-pitched voice. "Did you really think anybody was going to buy that?"

He trained a stern glare on Matthew's face and clicked his tongue.

"Come on, Mattie. You could do better than that. Everybody knows how much you've been looking forward to this, it wasn't like you at all."

Matthew opened and closed his mouth, unable to divert his eyes from his brother's bright, earnest ones. He was aware it hadn't been one of his best excuses – but he had been feeling too dizzy and awful to come up with anything else. Yet…

"But… you shouldn't be here. I could get you sick… that's why—"

Alfred sighed and performed an exaggerated eye-roll.

"_I_ won't get sick and you _know_ it, dummy."

"Yes, but—"

"Aand that's why I'm the only one here with you. Arthur and Francis just came in to check on you earlier and are staying downstairs making all the preps and stuff. They probably wouldn't have gotten sick anyway – don't let him know I said this, but not even Arthur's actually so fragile, dude – but hey, we all know how stubborn you are about this. We just wanted you to feel better."

At Alfred's words, Matthew suddenly realized that the odd perceptions he had chalked to his delirious dream hadn't vanished. The smell of freshly baked cookies and cinnamon had seeped through the door and invaded the room with its promise of warmth and delicious food downstairs. The faint noises – Christmas carols occasionally covered by the bickering of two voices. They were too far away for the single words to be grasped, but the French and British accents were unmistakable.

Warmth filled Matthew's chest and spread to his limbs, making any discomfort fade. An incredulous smile blossoming on his lips, he looked up to his older brother.

Alfred reciprocated with a smile that was just as bright and grounding in its confidence.

"Christmas's with family, Mattie. We wouldn't have it without you."

Wetness prickled at the corners of Matthew's eyes, but he couldn't summon enough energy to feel embarrassed. There was only mind-numbing gratitude – for the best present he could have ever imagined.

**(word count: 1253)**

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**Note:** I decided to turn this into a collection of short standalone ficlets like this one (meaning: not really enough plot to be considered a full fic, mostly just one/two moments). You'll find the necessary info for each chapter below.

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**Table of Contents**

**1\. Christmas Is with Family: **_It's the night before Christmas and Canada is sick and bedridden, facing the prospect of spending the holiday alone and away from his family — or so he believes. _(Canada-centric; FACE family)

**2\. Small Stream: **_Canada is exhausted after a bad day. But maybe, everything isn't as bleak as he thinks. _(Canada-centric)

**3\. One Sip Too Many:** _Canada has had a bit too much to drink and America is an overbearingly overprotective older brother (and an unreliable narrator)._ (NA brothers)

**4\. Cultural Dissonance:** _America and Canada are on a road trip across England and have forgotten some important details._ (NA brothers and ACE family)

**5\. Truce:** _England loathes asking for help. But for his boys, he can even swallow his pride and do that._ (England-centric; England and France)

**6\. Sweet Memento:** _The fairy tales England used to tell hold a special meaning for Canada._ (Canada and England)

**7\. What Comes After:** _Being immortal in a world of mortal men can be painful. France tries to help Canada cope._ (France and Canada)


	2. Small Stream (Canada-centric)

This is an extremely short snippet as I haven't had enough time for anything more, but I wrote it so I thought I could still publish it. I hope you'll enjoy it!

**Summary:** _Canada is exhausted after a bad day. But maybe, everything isn't as bleak as he thinks._(Canada-centric; America is involved as well.)

* * *

**Small Stream**

The moment the door clicked closed behind him, the smile on his face fell, replaced by a blank expression. It didn't convey anything, not even sadness or disappointment – he was past that. Too tired for it. The weight that pressed down his chest felt more like defeat than anything else.

Matthew let himself fall on the mattress, not reacting to the slight bounce his weight caused. His eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling and didn't move. He hadn't even taken off his shoes.

It hadn't been a good day.

All the afternoon, he had felt like he was floating. Conversations had carried out all around him – a muffled buzzing, words and noises piling up and intertwining until they no longer made any sense – but they never _involved_ him. Like a small stream making its way around sturdy stones, he had slipped among them without ever disturbing.

Like every day, he had smiled and nodded, eager to please. But nothing ever changed. For the fleetest moments, somebody would sometimes focus his eyes on him. Matthew's heart would be set ablaze – only for the embers of hope to wither into dark coal as the expectation never paid up. He didn't touch them, not truly. Like a ghost walking among men.

Matthew felt like he didn't belong there. His surroundings sometimes became fuzzy and dazed, with a dream-like quality. No matter what he did, he couldn't reach nor change them.

And he was tired.

He was oh so tired, with a bone-deep weariness that kept him pinned down to the bed. Unable even to straighten himself and take off his shoes. He felt like there was no point. Why would it matter if he slept with his shoes on or off, when his entire existence was inconsequential? Why should he keep trying, when all his efforts were met by failures after failures, piling up in a dark mountain that loomed over him, threatening to crumble and bury him under its weight?

He was tired of being disappointed.

All he wished was to close his eyes and let the oblivion of sleep soothe away his pain. The only peace was the absence of feeling – the absence of everything.

The next day, he would wake up and somehow summon enough energy to force his lips into a smile and to try again. But not right then. For a moment, he just wanted to rest.

But of course, not even that respite was granted to him. He lay still on the mattress, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Too numb and exhausted to cry, but apparently, still too alert to fall asleep. The very air around him seemed to press down his chest. Drawing a breath was becoming hard, but he didn't move. There was no point.

A sudden vibration against his thigh made him start. His hand went to retrieve the phone from the pocket in an automatic motion. Before he had consciously decided whether he wanted to read the message or not, the bright screen was in front of his eyes, the notification on display.

_"Yo, where r u moping at? Franny's cooking dinner for everybody and Artie's whining. U r the only one missing. Don't leave me here with the old men, it isn't fun without you."_

Matthew stared at the message. As the meaning of the words settled in, the room seemed to grow brighter. It was impossible, of course – a phone screen didn't offer that much light. Yet, even the air felt lighter, no longer oppressing.

The weight on his chest vanished all of sudden, leaving him able to expand his lungs fully. Along with the fresh air, energy tingled back to his limbs. He flexed his hands and feet as a small smile slowly blossomed on his lips.

He didn't have to wait until morning. Getting up and trying again was hard, but his brother's words reminded him why it was worth it. Small moments like that were all he needed.

**(word count: 661)**


	3. One Sip Too Many (NA brothers)

Another 1 am snippet. This time, inspired by a question I got on Tumblr some time ago. I hope you'll enjoy it!

**Summary:** _Canada has had a bit too much to drink and America is an overbearingly overprotective older brother (and an unreliable narrator)_.

* * *

**One Sip Too Many**

Alfred's attentive eyes scanned the room, briefly landing on each of the small groups clustered around the tables. The low music and dim lighting slowly seeped into his body in a soothing wave, promising a relaxing evening after that row of conferences. Just one small task, and Alfred would be at ease. His lips spontaneously curved into a smile as he caught sight of a glossy, wavy mop of strawberry blond hair.

"Hey, Mattie, there you are!"

He quickened his pace to reach his brother just as the latter turned towards him. Matthew stumbled over something Alfred couldn't see, but his entire face lit up as he spotted his brother.

"Al! You're finally here, I'm so glad, Al!"

Alfred found himself halting for a moment at the surprise. Such a loud declaration wasn't quite like the meek Matthew he knew… Nevertheless, he was quite pleased to elicit such a reaction from his brother.

Another step, and Alfred's arm were filled with Matthew's body, who all but threw himself at him.

"Woah there, bro! Enthusiastic much?"

Matthew fervently nodded against his neck and muttered something unintelligible. He didn't try to get his weight back on his own two legs but clung to Alfred's sweater.

Alfred frowned, the excitement wilting into concern.

"Hey, you all right? Don't tell me you sprained an ankle or something…"

Matthew looked up at him. The smile stretching his lips was too wide, almost dazed; his cheeks cherry red.

"Oh no no… Totally fine. Everything's fine! It's so perfect you, know? We're all here and everything's good and perfect but even if I was happy I was kind of sad you weren't here because you were missing a lot of fun—"

Even without hearing Matthew's words, Alfred could have surmised what had happened from the smell that hit his nostrils. His entire body stiffened, the cheerfulness of a moment earlier all but forgotten.

He firmly detached his brother from his chest and kept him at arms-length, staring at his face. He had to tighten the hold on Matthew's shoulders as the boy wavered.

"Matthew? What did you drink?"

Matthew didn't react to the barely suppressed anger seeping through Alfred's voice. Instead, his addled smile widened.

"Eh… nothing much. It did taste good though! It burned at first, but then it was good. You should try a sip, I think you'd like it! Everybody liked it. I was a bit dubious at first but Ivan was right, it was good, and Ivan was super nice, you know? He told me he'd give me another one—"

Alfred's stomach coiled in fury. _Of course _Russia was behind it. In fact, Russia was sitting at a nearby table, sipping from a glass. His expression was neutral, but his eyes had followed Matthew.

"You," Alfred spat out.

Russia stared back at him.

"Are you blaming me for your brother's lack of restraint? I merely offered him a drink which he accepted of his own will. I didn't think he would be such a lightweight."

His stony features didn't betray any emotion, but was that a malicious glint in his eyes? Alfred was quite sure of that. He gritted his teeth, fury mounting inside his chest.

"Of course you didn't. Just like you didn't know Matthew isn't old enough to drink alcohol, I bet."

At that moment, the subject of the conversation finally registered what was going on and pawned at Alfred's arm with a small whine.

"Oh no no… Why are you mad, Al? Don't be mad. We're all friends here! We can all have fun together!"

"Not now, Matthew!"

Alfred pushed Matthew against his side, away from Russia's eyes, that were bright with mirth.

"Centuries old, fought into wars and bled for his own and other countries, but not old enough to drink alcohol. Sounds quite a contradiction, to me. And your brother seems to agree. He could have refused any time."

Matthew muttered something, but Alfred ignored him. He chose to scowl at Russia instead of acknowledging the way his stomach turned.

"Because you didn't force him at all, I'm sure."

Matthew could have probably refused, but he was too soft-hearted and eager to please for his own good. Russia only needed to push the right buttons. Even worse, Alfred was sure Russia was fully aware of that.

But Russia only addressed Alfred a smile that made his blood boil.

"Your brother is much more capable of making his own decisions that you give him credit for. Had he wanted to refuse the drink, he would have."

Alfred held his breath at the insult, ready to burst— and Matthew stumbled against his arm and clawed at his sleeve.

"Woah…" he muttered, his eyes wide in wonder, "Everything's spinning, Al… Why is it spinning? Are we in a merry-go-round? I… I thought it would be fun but it's not so fun anymore, Al… Can we please get off?"

Alfred would have loved _so much_ to stay and discuss everything with Russia. If fists got involved, even better. Sadly, he had to shift his priorities.

"This is what you get for drinking alcohol, you know."

He tried to sound stern, but his expression melted at the sight of his brother's confused face. With a sigh, he hefted him in his arms and ignored the squeal of surprise.

"Off to bed with you."

He strode across the room, his head held high and his featured tightened into a frown to ward off any questions and show he didn't have time to waste for anybody. He counted each step and tried to regulate his breathing and heartbeat. Yet, he couldn't help but succumb to the itch and turn back just before stepping out of the door.

Russia's eyes were still glued on him, a look of disinterest on his face. Alfred knew better.

"Now listen carefully, because I'm not going to say it twice: if you _ever_ touch my brother, I'll make you _beg_ for death. And I keep my promises."

Alfred walked away without waiting for an answer.

Only after he had put enough distance between him and that damned room he looked at his brother's face and acknowledged again his mumbling.

"Am I drunk? I really didn't mean to, I didn't think it was going to be so strong… Ivan told me but I thought it'd be fine, I had forgotten I had already had two beers because Laura and Abel offered me some and I couldn't say no, besides, it tasted nice so I wanted to drink it…"

In spite of himself, Alfred felt the knot in his chest relax as he looked at his brother's earnest eyes. No matter what, he couldn't stay mad at him. He would have to, however. For Matthew's own good.

"You should know better," he said in a chiding tone, in spite of knowing that there was little chance his words would be remembered the following morning, "But I bet that commie didn't tell you how strong exactly was that thing, did he? This was totally on purpose."

Dread knotted Alfred's stomach at the thought of what could have happened to his brother. He had been lucky to arrive before anything went too far.

"Oh, I don't think he did," Matthew rambled, "Ivan really isn't as bad as he looks like, you know… he just wants to make friends…"

Alfred sighed as his brother's words slurred into an unintelligible mumble. _As trusting as ever, I see._ Matthew was just like that. He would keep getting hurt. Fortunately, Alfred would always be there to watch his little brother's back.

**(word count: 1265)**

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**Notes:**  
Abel is Netherlands  
Laura is Belgium


	4. Cultural Dissonance (NA bros & ACE fam)

Another late night/early morning snippet as I try to build up the confidence to get back to writing. I hope you'll enjoy it! And reviews are always appreciated :)

**Summary:** _America and Canada are on a road trip across England and have forgotten some important details._

* * *

**Cultural Dissonance**

His body was weightless, comfortably curled upon the leather seat. The hum of the engine was like a secure blanket, lulling him to sleep. For the first time in weeks, the tension had left Matthew's muscles and his body melted into a rejuvenating sleep. He felt like he could have spent the eternity just like that.

If it weren't for the obnoxious tap against his right shoulder, of course.

"Mattie Mattie~ Time to wake up~"

Matthew grunted and curled deeper into himself, hiding his face between the seat and the crook of his shoulder in a clear indication that he wasn't intentioned to abandon his rest.

Unsurprisingly, his tormentor didn't get the hint.

"Come on, Mattie! You've been sleeping for three whole hours, it's time to wake up! I'm bored!"

Alfred punctuated his words by turning on the radio full volume.

Matthew whimpered against the sound blasting in his ears, but an attempt to cover them with the collar of his coat proved futile. He was finally forced to uncurl his reluctant body in order to access the controls of the radio.

"Happy now?" he grumbled as he switched off the infernal sound.

Alfred gave a content hum of assent. His blue eyes looked bright and alert behind the glasses, his skin glowing and rested. There could be nothing further from the picture of a person who had just endured a transatlantic flight and then three hours of driving across English highways. Alfred was _so_ lucky.

Matthew, instead, was still so sluggish he could barely put two words together, his brain a muddled mess.

"I wasn't disturbing you by sleeping…"

"But you've had enough sleep already! All the time on the plane, plus those three hours! And I've been driving in silence _for-e-ver_. Time to spice things up!"

Said that, Alfred once again turned on the radio – at a reasonable volume, this time.

Matthew would have wanted to retort that Alfred was the one who had slept on the plane, that three hours weren't enough to recover from how overworked he was… but there was no point, since Alfred had already made up his mind. Besides, he _had_ decided on his own to be the one driving after noticing how exhausted his brother looked. Matthew owed him a bit of company.

With a sigh, he straightened up against the seat and rubbed his bleary eyes. Out of the windows, the English countryside ran along the highway. Small cottages and farmhouses sprinkled here and there in the distance testified the presence of civilization, but Alfred and Matthew were the only ones on the road. Well, them and an approaching vehicle, still only a small point in the distance but steadily getting bigger… and _right towards them_.

Matthew had a moment to take everything in. The car coming. The swapped, unfamiliar position of the driver's seat. The _English_ road. And the car running towards them at maximum speed.

"What the fuck is that?!"

"Alfred, you _idiot_!"

Out of instinct, Matthew jumped toward his brother and grabbed the steering wheel. Together, they jerked the car into the left lane just as the other car passed by them, honking.

Matthew's ears were ringing.

"You can let go, Mattie. We're fine."

Matthew heard the words but he couldn't move, his muscles locked by the adrenaline rush. It wasn't until Alfred slowed down to a stop at the side of the road that his heartbeat slowed down. He still needed his brother gently prying his fingers away from the steering wheel before he could come back to himself.

"You…"

He had to stop, unable to put into words the mixture of fear and rage threatening to overwhelm him.

Alfred shrugged and offered him a thin, apologetic half-smile.

"Well, nobody got hurt so it's all fine and well?"

Matthew could have lost it right there and then. The fading adrenaline threatened to turn into blind rage, his muscle tensed in preparation… but they still had _hours_ of driving left. It wasn't the right moment to bring Alfred to a breakdown.

"Get off. I'm driving from now on," he snapped, glowering at his brother.

He could still lecture Alfred _and_ drive at the same time, after all.

* * *

Something good had come out the scare, after all. Now, Matthew was wide awake, the previous sluggishness just a distant memory. He was alert enough to drive carefully, enjoy the road, and chat with Alfred, whom he had fully forgiven one hour earlier. There was something soothing in the sharpness and repetitive motions that driving gave him, he wasn't in the right mood to stay mad. He was almost glad he had ended up being the one driving… Not that he would ever admit it to Alfred, of course. (Even if from the cheeky smile his brother addressed to him from time to time, Matthew was forced to deduce he _knew_.) Everything was going quite swimmingly.

Up until the flashing lights at the entrance of a service area signalled the presence of a police patrol.

Matthew dutifully slowed down a notch, a knot growing in his throat as he gave a quick check – he was driving just right under the speed limit, the lights and mirrors were correctly adjusted… everything seemed to be in order. But the anxiety only rose as a policeman signed at him to stop.

"It's just a routine control," Alfred reassured him in a soothing tone, offering his arm a squeeze.

Matthew wished he had even a tiny bit of his brother's confidence. However, he was aware he couldn't show any hesitation. Ignoring his thundering heart, he stopped in front of the policemen and offered them a smile as he rolled down the window. His driving license and passport were smoothly transitioned from his sweaty hands to the strong ones of a middle-aged, portly officer.

Matthew had checked numerous times before leaving, he didn't like creating disturbances by appealing to his status of personification when something went wrong with his 'human' documents. Everything should have been in order.

…Then, why was the friendly face of the policeman slowly contorting into a frown?

Matthew's throat was dry. He tried to smile as the officer raised his eyes from the documents to Matthew's face, but could only stare at the stern expression.

Alfred leaned over him to get a closer look.

"Something wrong?"

The policeman sighed and passed the documents to a colleague that had just reached him.

"Son, I don't know how things work where you come from, but you're in England now. And in England, we don't allow seventeen-year-olds to drive a car. I'm afraid you'll have to come with me."

* * *

That had to be among the most embarrassing moments of Matthew's life. He kept his eyes stubbornly trained on the floor, analysing the dirt caked around the tiles. Another curious glance from a policeman or somebody working inside the police station, and he would have died of shame. He couldn't _believe_ he had overlooked such an important detail.

He buried his head in his hands when a pair of familiar footsteps approached him.

"Still pouting, Mattie?" asked Alfred, just back from his short trip to the vending machine.

_He_ could have left at any time. Since he was of age, nothing was detaining him. But of course, he had decided to wait with Matthew and witness his humiliation, often adding to it with his cheeky remarks. Matthew wanted him gone.

And the worst part was still approaching – with another pair of familiar footsteps as an equally familiar voice talked with the same policeman who had stopped them. The words were clipped with irritation.

"Man, this is hilarious," Alfred declared.

Matthew wished the earth could swallow him.

His prayer wasn't granted. Arthur's steps finally halted and Matthew had to lift his head.

He immediately wished he hadn't. Arthur was staring at him with such a mixture of rage and disappointment that it physically hurt.

"I can't believe you, Matthew. I was so sure I could trust you to be sensitive… How could you be so careless?"

Matthew had no words to justify himself. He could only stare at Arthur and let the embarrassment consume him.

He had been so focused on Arthur that he had almost forgotten about the policeman accompanying him, who startled Matthew when he cleared his throat.

"Now there, Mr. Kirkland. The boy is far from blameless, but _somebody_ must have allowed him to get his driving license. As his legal guardian and an Englishman who knows the laws of England, this was quite an oversight on your part."

For a moment, Matthew thought he must have heard wrong. He blinked, but the policemen was still standing in front of Arthur, with his arms folded across his chest as he stared at the apparently younger man with a stern expression.

Arthur's face bleached; his fists tightened in fury.

"Excuse me, are you trying to insinuate—"

"Priceless," Alfred whispered, offering a conspiratorial wink to Matthew.

Matthew dropped his face to his knees, his cheeks burning with humiliation. He would have wanted to retort that, by forcing him to drive, _Alfred_ had been the cause of everything… pity that Alfred was clearly having the time of his life.

Why did everything always have to turn against Matthew?

**(word count: 1536)**

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**Note:** There are reasons (based on canon material) I write Matthew as younger than Alfred and underage. I've written everything in details on tumblr (feynavaley).


	5. Truce (England-centric, England&France)

It's 2 am and I was in an angsty mood. I hope somebody will enjoy this very short snippet, let me know what you think!

**Summary:** _England loathes asking for help. But for his boys, he can even swallow his pride and do that._

* * *

**Truce**

He hated that. He hated that situation and even more he hated _him_. Hated to admit that he could accomplish what Arthur couldn't, the mere thought made his skin itch and his stomach churn.

Yet, there he was. Standing on the parqueted floor in front of Francis's hotel room, with his hands clenched into fits and all his muscles so tense they felt a second from snapping.

He didn't want to do that. It wasn't fair that he had to do that. _(What did Francis have that Arthur lacked? Arthur was aware he could be too stern and impatient at times, but he was trying. He should be able to help when he put himself into it. He should be able to offer comfort and words of advice, he should—)_

Nevertheless, reality was reality, and Arthur wasn't so foolish as to wallow in denial. He lifted his arm and moved it towards the door.

He had a moment of hesitation then. Held his breath. A small, hopeful – _stupid_ – part of him still latched onto the possibility he could avoid the humiliation and everything else connected to it.

But wishful thinking had never brought him anywhere.

He shook his head with determination and hit the polished wood with his knuckles before he could second-guess himself.

After that, he could do nothing but wait. One second, two seconds… the footsteps started coming then. They weren't to the door yet, maybe he could…

Too late. The door was opened to reveal Francis's perfect (fake) face.

"Good evening, Arthur. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The mocking intonation of his words complimented his smirk, his blue eyes had an unfriendly glimmer.

Acid bile reached the back of Arthur's throat, he had to clench his fists tighter to steady himself. He wanted more than anything to swear at Francis and pretend there was nothing he needed, that he had everything figured out…

But that time, he couldn't. Two pair of eyes – lilac ones heavy with sorrow and self-loathing, blue ones burning with rage and anguish – were etched into his memory. He had already failed.

Using all his willpower, Arthur looked straight into Francis's eyes.

"I don't have time for this right now," he spat out. He forced himself to ignore how heavy his tongue felt, how parched his mouth. "It's about the boys."

And _oh_ how he _hated_ himself right then. His skin burned with humiliation, his head was spinning. He shouldn't have been so vulnerable.

But Francis's features sobered up, any hint of mockery was washed away from his eyes as he moved to a side to invite Arthur inside his hotel room.

"Tell me what happened."

This time, his voice was gentle.

The relief that swelled up inside Arthur's chest was bittersweet, almost painful. He should have been able to solve the situation himself, should have been enough – the sharp ache of the nails digging into the skin of his palms wasn't a suitable punishment for his inadequacy – but he… wasn't.

Arthur was a failure of a caretaker. The words were bitter in his mouth as he started narrating what had transpired.

But that wasn't about him, after all. Francis could give those boys that should have been Arthur's responsibility what Arthur himself couldn't. And for how much it pained him, Arthur could give them Francis at least.

**(word count: 557)**

* * *

**Note****:** I think that Francis's higher sensitivity would drive Arthur mad. Arthur suffers from self-worth issues but he does try his best for his (ex)-colonies, so seeing that Francis is better at comforting them when they're upset... I think it would be very hard to swallow for him. But he isn't stupid, so he knows that sometimes, Francis is what's needed to solve a bad/tense situation. This doesn't mean he has to like it, though.


	6. Sweet Memento (Canada&England)

**Note: **I wrote this for #hetaliawritersmonthly challenge on tumblr. (As usual, as tradition mandates, between midnight and 1 am, lol.) The style is quite different from my usual one, it's just how it came out. I hope you'll still like it, let me know what you think!

**Theme:** Celebration of Writers**  
Prompt:** _"If there's a book that you want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it."_ —Toni Morrison

**Summary:** _"The fairy tales England used to tell hold a special meaning for Canada."_

* * *

**Sweet Memento**

Terror and desolation were constant companions in Canada's first days as a British colony. The sudden illness that gripped him left him too weak to move or even talk, helpless against the fever blazing in his body. Sometimes, when his chest was so heavy that drawing each breath felt like a fight against a rock compressing his lungs, Canada thought he was going to fade and die.

England's earnest reassurances that everything was going to be all right didn't help much.

England was kind. He sat next to Canada's bed and ran hesitant fingers through the child's hair, tried to curb the fever with a soft wet cloth on his forehead. He even forced himself to speak French, although the awful accent and frequent, brief pauses as he fumbled to find the right words made it clear it took quite an effort out of him.

But Canada didn't know if he could trust England.

France had been kind but he had lied; there was no reason England couldn't be the same. For all Canada knew, England was trying to make him comfortable before he drew his last breath. While deeply appreciated, England's gentleness didn't loosen the knot of fear in Canada's stomach.

His stories were a different matter.

When he was telling stories, something changed in England's demeanour. His shoulders and back became straighter, his eyes bright and focused as his smooth, confident voice retraced the adventures of old kings and knights. He was mesmerizing; Canada could do nothing but let himself be swallowed and trapped inside the tale.

And as he did, the pain and fear seemed to fade as well.

Much to his surprise, Canada slowly got his strength back and his illness ended in recovery instead of death.

The difficulties didn't end there, however. Everything was new and daunting – a different language he didn't speak nor understand as well as he had thought, people looking down at him in disapproval because he was 'a foreigner'… sometimes, Canada got to the end of the day so weighed down by sadness that he was even too exhausted to cry.

England's stories, however, always broke through the clouds looming over him and made the air lighter. In those words and adventures, he found comfort and even the strength to face the following day.

As time went by, Canada grew accustomed to his new living situation, but England's bedtime stories were still treasured among his favourite parts of the day. By listening to them with unrivalled attention, he committed them to heart. Oftentimes, during his darkest moments, Canada would find his mind going back to those stories, mentally retraced his favourite passages as he tried to ground himself. Every time despair was about to strangle any hope, the memory of England's words and those moments they had shared brought a trickle of relief.

As it turned out, Canada remembering England's stories was a stroke of luck. For England eventually stopped telling them.

Rationally, Canada knew that he shouldn't be disappointed: at that point, he was old enough not to need a bedtime story and England was far too busy to worry about that. The knowledge didn't stop disappointment from clenching his chest. Despite telling himself that he should have coped, Canada often mourned that loss.

And maybe, Canada hadn't been the only one benefitting from those moments. Canada couldn't forget how lively and relaxed England had always been when telling his stories – so different from the frazzled young man Canada often had in front of eyes; one who seemed about to break into pieces in spite of how hard he was trying to keep himself together.

It took Canada weeks to gather enough courage to ask the question. Every time he was about to, he would take notice of England's tight features and tired eyes and feel silly for burdening him with such trivial concerns.

The solution came easier than he had feared. A single mention of intentions to America, and his brother was already yelling across the room.

"Oi, Artie! Did you ever write down the stories you used to tell us when we were kids? You know, all those fairy tales and stuff… They were cool!"

England stiffened at that, his face flushing bright red. As usual, he didn't offer a direct answer to America's question, but Canada didn't need that. All he needed was in the mumbling about how those tales had been mostly made up on the spot – and even more, in the haunted longing that for a moment England wasn't able to hide from his eyes.

For once, Canada knew what to do.

The first time he placed his hands over the keyboard, his fingers trembled; looking at the white page in front of him closed off his throat. In spite of everything, his memory was still good. After a bit of fumbling, the words started flowing easily on the page. It wasn't long before Canada realized with surprise that he was actually enjoying himself: those words he was writing were filled with the pleasant memories and feelings that came with them; a reminder of some of the best moments he had lived and of the bonds he shared not only with England, but also with America and even Australia and New Zealand. They weren't only stories but a memento of their family.

Self-doubt once again assaulted Canada when he extended his trembling hands to present the book to England.

England stilled, his eyes widening in surprise.

Canada's stomach made a painful summersault, a voice in his mind berating him for overstepping boundaries – but the gentleness England stroked the cover with almost spoke or reverence. The incredulous smile that slowly morphed his lips made him look younger and more relaxed.

"Those stories… they meant a lot to me," Canada explained without being able to conceal the slight trembling of his voice.

England's answer was in the way he hugged the book to his chest.

**(word count: 988)**


	7. What Comes After (Canada&France)

This is a fill for #hetaliawritersmonthly challenge on tumblr. It was quite a spur-of-the-moment writing, I hope you'll like it! Please let me know what you think :)

[**Theme: **Autumnal; **Prompt:** Despair]

**Summary****:** _Being immortal in a world of mortal men can be painful. France tries to help Canada cope._

**Warning:** Discussion of death and grief

* * *

**What Comes After**

Orange and red surrounded him from every side. A bright carpet all over the ground, spots covering the tree branches and rivalling the orange tinge of the sunset.

It was odd, that dying things would show such vibrant and lively colours. Jarring, even.

He had to divert his eyes.

Ignoring the way they stung, he focused them on the small stream right in front of his feet. There were still spots of orange and yellow – leaves swirling in the current – but the crystal-clear water left the grey rocks underneath visible. Cold colour and even colder water. That was much more fitting.

He was cold too, his extremities tingling and his pants damp from sitting so long on the leaves. The numbness was unpleasant, not enough to distract him from the throbbing in various part of his body. His brain knew that it was the painkillers wearing off.

He made no move to take action against it – pressed his lips tighter instead and refused to follow the natural urge to move his body in a more comfortable position.

Pain was what he deserved, after all; not the luxury of looking at the gorgeous scenery in front of him and let his mind be soothed by it. The pain was a reminder.

He didn't know for how long he had been sitting when the carpet of dead leaves started crackling towards him. Long steps, but measured and deliberate.

He didn't want to acknowledge the intruder – but it would be rude of him not to, after all. He had already caused enough trouble. Perhaps, not even getting the time to mourn was part of his punishment as well.

"Good evening, Francis," he said as the steps halted right behind him, so close that he felt the slow exhale at his shoulders.

"Matthieu."

Matthew acknowledged the greeting with a nod, grateful that Francis hadn't tried to woe him with pleasantries. There was so much he should have done – asked Francis about the travel, rushed to make sure all his needs were covered… but Matthew was too numb for that.

"Can I sit here with you?" Francis asked after a few moments of silence.

Matthew answered with another automatic nod. Something bitter in his chest mourned the chance to be alone – but he had no right to be mad.

Francis settled at Matthew's side. Matthew was aware of his slightly titled head and the periwinkle blue eyes scanning him, but he kept looking ahead and didn't acknowledge them.

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the occasional rustling of the leaves in the wind and the gentle burbling of the stream. Matthew could almost pretend that nothing had changed…

At last, Francis took a deep breath. His warm hand landed on Matthew's right knee and gave it a steady yet gentle squeeze.

"Matthieu—"

"I'm sorry that you had to come all the way up here, Francis. I'm… I'm not going to be of much company these days. You shouldn't have gone through all the trouble."

Somehow, he kept his voice steady and perfectly polished until the end. Even if he had to curl his hands into fists to prevent them from trembling.

"But this is why I have to be here, _mon coeur_. And it's no trouble. We just want to help, this comes before everything."

_We._

Not only Francis but Arthur and Alfred as well, back at the cabin. With the same, genuine eagerness in their voices as Francis, the same urge to help.

Matthew's breath itched, his eyes were burning.

He was being so awfully _selfish_.

But which reaction was truly the selfish one?

"Don't try to pretend you're fine. You wouldn't be here alone if you weren't hurting."

In spite of the reproach, Francis's voice held a gentleness that made Matthew's chest clench. The assessment wasn't wrong – yet, he couldn't take that compassion.

He swallowed thickly, trying to regain control of himself.

"It just isn't fair," he muttered at last, unable to articulate the tight knot of regret that clenched his chest.

Francis's fingers briefly tightened over his knee.

"Life often isn't."

Simple words. So right, and at the same time so utterly _wrong _that they stole Matthew's breath away.

"But this should have never happened! _I_ am the one who is supposed to protect them! I'm not even human, I can be hurt or killed but I'll always come back and instead he—"

Matthew would never forget those dark brown eyes. The quiet acceptance in them, the way they had reflected his gentle smile in that split of a second when he had taken his decision. His last one.

Dale Harrison, sixty-three years old. In good health and still with many years ahead of him. Dead in an accident that should have never happened. Dead because he had decided to push a teen-aged boy away and take the brunt of the impact. The death of a hero – an _unnecessary _death.

Matthew chocked back a sob. His breath was hot inside his mouth and nose, his throat felt clogged.

"And I was too slow. I was right there and I _knew_ what was happening but I hadn't thought he was going to do that, I should've been more alert, I could have prevented it if I just had—"

When Francis's hold tightened on his knee, Matthew realized that his body was shaking. He swallowed thickly and took a deep breath, pressing his hands flat to the ground to steady himself.

"It was his own choice," Francis reminded him.

Matthew shook his head, bitterness on his tongue.

"Well it was still useless! He didn't know what he was doing! He wasn't saving a _boy_, I wouldn't have died! This… it should have never happened!"

Matthew found himself panting at the end of the rant. Tears welled up at the corner of his eyes, he tore away his glasses and brushed his eyes with the back of his hand, hating himself for his lack of self-restraint.

Fortunately, Francis diverted his eyes and got up, taking a few steps forward to give Matthew some space.

A small pang of humiliation hit Matthew's chest – but there was also some relief underneath.

At last, Francis took a deep breath.

"Humans die, Matthieu. You know this. Whether today, tomorrow, or ten years from now… his time would have come."

"I _know_ he would have died anyway! But he could have—"

"Dying to protect a boy isn't a bad way to go, all things considered."

That shocked Matthew into silence. He took a deep breath, then stilled, unable to put his outrage into words.

Francis turned back towards him. There was grief in his features – but his ancient eyes were sharp, commanding Matthew to listen.

"Matthieu. You cannot burden yourself with the weight of somebody else's decision. Whether ill-informed, or foolish… that man took his decision himself, and you could have done nothing to stop him."

"But—"

"There are no 'buts'. You can't change what happened – you can only accept it and move forward. Are you going to honour Dale Harrison's sacrifice and live the life he believes he has gifted you, or are you going to let it all go to waste?"

Matthew bowed his head. His chest was tight, hurting as if it had been struck by a blow.

"It isn't fair," he whispered in a pathetically weak voice.

The leaves around him crinkled, then, a strong pair of arms enveloped him in a hug.

"It isn't. And you have the right to grieve. But don't let the dead drag you with them – mourn them, and honour them by treasuring your own life. This is what they deserve for their bravery."

At last, Matthew gave up his resolve and let his body melt into Francis's welcoming arms.

_It still isn't fair._

So many people had died in front of Matthew's eyes. Many more would follow them, he wasn't that naïve. But to happen that way…

Francis, however, had relaxed as well, his gentle humming reverberating against Matthew's chest.

Matthew closed his fists over the fabric of Francis's woollen coat.

_I'm so sorry, Mr Harrison. I really am. You didn't deserve this._

It wasn't fair. But while a man was dead, the people who cared for him were alive. Matthew couldn't let them down.

Perhaps, that was why dead leaves looked so bright and full of life – as a reminder that even in front of death, life was more important.

"I'm… I'm tired, Francis. Can we please go home?"

**(word count: 1,416)**


End file.
